Many large and small boats were dancing merrily on the Bay of
Castellamare, so richly populous with many rare species of fish. The
mirrorlike blue surface was only ruffled by the small steamers on their
way to and from Sorrento, carrying throngs of pleasure-seeking tourists
from all parts of the world.
On the right hand shore, extended on a high promontory receding a
little from the shore, stands peacefully dreaming and forgotten, by the
outer world, the little village of Vico Ecquenso.
The innumerable small fishing smacks belonging to the villagers
("paesani") dot the bay as far as Castellamare, and every morning they
make their way thither, carrying to market their nightly catches of
tunny fish, anchovies and other dumb subjects of Neptune.
The valleys, perfumed throughout their length with odorous herbs, palms
and gigantic cactus in wild profusion, change their character a little
further away, by taking on the indescribable charm of the picturesquely
draughted olive trees, which often slope down to the water's edge,
while on green hillside terraces most magnificent grapes gleam from
afar, like red glittering rubies to the eyes of the delighted tourist.
On the left side, amid palms and chestnut trees, one catches a glimpse
of the lifeless unroofed ruins of Pompeii, once a populous city, which
was overwhelmed by her mighty neighbor, the terrible Vesuvius on the
22nd of August in the year 79, and remained under ground for about
eighteen centuries, until Charles the III ordered its excavation on
the 1st of April, 1748. Amid all these buried treasures of art of long
perished races, Seneca had spent his youth and Cicero had written his
biting rhetorical masterpieces, which earned him a sixteen months'
banishment from the court of the Emperor Claudius, whose gigantic
statue of Persian marble, in the robe of "Pontifex Maximus" was lately
excavated at Pesto.
* * * * *
The high mountains were already casting long shadows through the
little village of Vico Ecquenso, and the hot evening sun, now about to
sink into the gently splashing waves, gilded with its last beams the
weather-beaten, centuries-old convent of Santa Croce, built upon a high
summit on green hilltops.
The peaceful sound of the old convent bell, inviting those to pious
meditations and evening prayer, was sounding now with wondrous
sweetness over land and sea, even as far as the desolate altars of
the heathen Gods of Pompeii tumbled down from their gilded pedestals,
and the shrunken mummies in the "theatrum tragico," where the people
perished without the help of the heathen gods, listened dumb and
petrified,--the sightless eyes wide open,--to the sounds of the new
religion calling them again and again morning and evening. The vast
oppressiveness of the ghostly solitude there, contrasted strangely with
the uncommon bustle perceptible that evening among the simple minded
inhabitants of the quaint little village, who usually went so quietly
about their work.
A joyous excitement sparkled in the eyes of both old and young, who had
assembled in front of the only village tavern, "Osteria," to witness
the approach of the festal procession of youth and maidens coming home
from the vineyards, laden with baskets of grapes and flowers.
The wealthiest man in the place, the farmer Niccolo Gallioti, who had
just before devoutly lit six immense wax candles in honor of the Holy
Madonna, was today giving a feast to the young people of the place. The
ingathered harvest had filled all his granaries to the roofs and so
surpassed all his expectations that it had to be celebrated with eating
and drinking, music and dancing. An hour before, he had been seen
walking up towards the vineyards at the side of his beautiful daughter,
Concetta, and as yet there was no sign of their return. The expecting
crowd shuffled up and down impatiently, and craned their necks.
"There! There! Corpo di bacco! they're coming now," cried a small
bare-footed lazzaroni, greatly excited, running breathlessly to meet
them, and vainly trying at the same time to hold up the torn, shapeless
breeches, which actually had no right to that name. They were fastened
by a cord on the top and reached from the shoulders to his feet.
All the inhabitants of the village seemed to be present, and pressed
forward in a confused mass, each one anxious to be the first one to
greet the festal train, principally Galiotti the liberal host and
dispenser of the best wine.
In the rear, unobserved, stood a man of about twenty-eight years, in an
elegant summer suit, apparently belonging to a better class, looking
sneeringly at the great excitement of the "Paesani."
His dark, sparkling eyes, encased in blue-shaded rings, had a
demoniacal glitter. He was a tall, athletic man, with a constant
sneer on his red lips. The fairly chiseled lineaments were blotted by
dissipation, and blackened and distorted by the baleful fire of fierce
passions. The bushy eyebrows, that nearly met each other, were of the
kind to exercise an uncanny attraction upon trusting innocent girls by
looking into their depths.
The distant strains of three gaily-clad musicians with fiddles and
horns seemed to electrify the crowd. The ragged youth began to dance,
the old paesani threw their shabby looking caps, in the air, while the
little barefooted lazzaroni, his face black with dirt, ran ahead of the
anxiously expected procession, splitting his throat with shrill cries
of "Evviva," and gesticulating frantically.
Only the tall gentleman, with a constant sneer on his red lips, stood
apparently unmoved in the same place, gazing at the scene enacted
before his eyes with great contempt. Observing him at close range one
could perceive, in his dark sinister eyes, the consuming fire of a
sinful passion, a volcanic fire it seemed, like that which rose and
fell on the summit of the neighboring Vesuvius, devastating in its
destructiveness.
He had seen the fair Concetta at Castellamare for the first time,
and since then he could not forget her lovely face; day and night it
haunted him, that merry, mirthful face that spoke of pure maidenliness.
The sweetness and childlike pureness of the girl's exterior attracted
him. It was something new in his dissipated life, something he had to
conquer.
Even at the gaming tables of Nice and Monte Carlo, and at the wild
orgies carried on there by the dissipated sons of nobility, he seemed
to see her standing before him, smiling sweetly, while her blue
innocent-looking eyes shone at him like spotless mirrors.
After a short time he had discovered that she came twice a week to
Castellamare, on Mondays in her father's fishing boat, while on
Saturdays in the company of a maid carrying stone pitchers to the
well, "Stabilimento," where six different healing springs gush out of
the mountain side. When the flames on top of the Vesuvius burst forth
vehemently illuminating Naples, Castellamare and all other little
hamlets far and near the springs are overflowing with boiling water,
but the moment the flame diminishes, the water grows cold and gradually
disappears.
The young rogue made good use of these days; as if by chance, he
always strolled along the same path to the springs. If it rained, he
was promptly at hand with an umbrella; if, on the other hand, the sun
shone down oppressively on the overheated Concetta, the same rescuer
in need was at hand again, gallantly offering his English parasol,
and always walking a little further with her. The sunny nature of the
young girl shone out of her splendid blue eyes, bright and beaming as
a May morning. She trusted every one, and especially this handsome
gentleman, who treated her always with such exquisite courtesy, as if
she had been one of the daughters of the Lords of Torre del Greco, whom
she saw passing on the Corso di Santa Lucia, either on horseback or
in a luxurious carriage. Who would be likely to have any evil designs
against her? Old and young loved her in the village, and the poor and
sick had learned to bless her for three miles round. Having grown up in
her village home, and blossomed there like a wild rose, she had only
known one great sorrow in her young life, that of losing her beloved
mother when she was very young. Her merriment, her happy singing,
brightened up the dark, lonely house of the gloomy old man.
However, since she had made the acquaintance of the gentleman with
the ensnaring eyes, she had changed greatly. She was often lost in
amazement--though not in his company, but when alone in her little
bed-chamber, where the observing eyes of her anxious father could not
watch her.
There she sat, her large blue eyes staring out of the window, with a
feeling of overflowing joy, that filled her heart, a feeling she could
not explain to herself, especially at his approach, the violent beating
of something within her that threatened at times to take her breath
away.
"Mia cara Concetta, I love you madly," had he not long since whispered
in her ear. He has said _that_ to her, the common-place daughter of the
"Paesano" Niccolo Gallioti. But his dark, passionate-looking eyes made
her tremble. She did not know why.
"If he could see me now in my new Sunday dress!" she thought, her
glance sweeping over the crowd, as she passed along, surrounded by all
the youths and maidens of the village, in her red petticoat and bodice
of black silk, with snow white muslin sleeves. "There! Santissima
Madonna." "He is waiting for me," she whispered happily, while a blush
brighter than the red silk of her dress overspread her lovely face.
But not for all the bunches of red grapes she was so fond of would she
have raised her eyes, for fear the youths and maidens might have read
in them the delight of her heart at seeing the man she loved and was
loved by such a man!--the violent beating within her increased at this
thought. "Madonna!" She looked at the soft blue sky and the waving
cactus plants in the distance. Tears of joy filled her eyes, while the
golden sunshine filled every nook and corner in Nature's great realm.
Arriving at the house, she found the maid busily engaged in preparing
the feast. The men were beginning to place large tables in the garden
under the orange trees. Then they rolled out large casks of the new
wine from the cellar. Concetta had just put on her apron, busily
engaged in carrying out a tray full of dishes into the gaily decorated
garden, when the door burst open. Her father stood at the entrance,
with his cap in his hand, bowing reverentially to a gentleman, begging
him to honor his house by entering and participating in the general
frolic of the day.
A loud crash was heard. Concetta recognized him at once, the gentleman
with the ensnaring eyes, and, delighted as she was, had dropped the
large Sunday tray, with all the special dishes which only appeared on
the Sunday table for special occasions. She was startled and happy at
the same time, and hardly heard the irate father's words of blame. The
voice of the little lazzaroni was heard outside singing "Napoli Bella."
She looked through the window, and San Francesco, on his pedestal,
smiled at her. She turned about, and met his burning glances. Her
cheeks crimsoned; she was in a confusion when those dark fascinating
eyes actually followed her wherever she went.
He sat by her side at the table, calling her, Concetta Gallioti,
endearing names, and squeezing her hand tenderly whenever the father
was not looking in their direction. And when she found his eyes
constantly fastened upon her face, she felt like crying and laughing at
the same time, though it looked as if she were even too shy for that.
Her innocent face was like the clear water of the Spring at
Castellamare. He observed her closely, knew the symptoms and smiled
maliciously, considering it an auspicious omen in his well-tried
loving-making scheme.
The evening breezes rose and sank solemnly through the little green
olive trees in the distance. The tables were cleared away, the meal
was over and the three grotesque musicians, who had been feasting
convivially, were sounding their instruments with special vigor. The
dance began. All eyes were turned on Concetta, as she opened the rustic
ball with the interesting stranger beneath the orange trees.
Her little heart felt as though it would burst with joy in the
consciousness that he had eyes and ears for none but her, and scarcely
seemed to see the most renowned beauties of the village. The whole
evening he danced only with her--and what things he whispered in her
ear! Her fair cheeks still clothed themselves in red--and the more they
did so, the more eloquent grew his lips and the more terrifying in its
passion his burning gaze.